the horror of our love
by gambits princess
Summary: song fic for challenge three of letswritesherlock on tumblr


It had all started with a dead bird on the door step of 221-b. John had thought nothing of it at the time , other than how sorry he was for the poor thing. He had picked the poor thing up with some towels and disposed of it and went on with his day. The small bird did not cross his mind again untill the next morning when another creäture was on their stoop.

This creäture appeared to have at one point been an orange cat. It's tail and paws had been removed. It's eyes seemed to stare into John's soul as if blaming him for its short lived life. John had once again disposed of the animal but then proceeded to throw up. This was when he realized they may have a problem and informed Sherlock of the two animals. Sherlock was as always cold and aloft, calming that the animals had most likely fallen victim to a stronger member of their species and assured John not to worry.

John was happy that the next day brought no new creatures, then a week went by without an incident. John ad just let his guard down when on monday he found a box on their door step. He carefully kicked the box checking for movement, then he lifted the item and carried it inside to the kitchen. against his better judgment he opened the box, and nearly vomited up his breakfast at what he saw.

Inside the box lay the almost skeleton of an infant. Its milky white bones shining trough rotting and dripping flesh. John made it to the sink before he was ill. After sucking in lungs of air to calm himself he yelled for Sherlock. Sherlock came down the stairs, looked at john and the box upon the table and begin to walk towards said box.

John tried to stop the other man from looking but Sherlock ignored Johns tentative grip on his sleeve and glanced inside. Sherlock's brow furrowed but then he simply pulled out his cell to call Lestrade. John collapsed in a chair in the living area to wait for Lestrade. His eyes didn't seem to want to leave Sherlock however, he watched as the taller man leaned closer to the box without so much a hint of sadness in his eyes and felt his blood run cold.

Lestrade arrived soon enough and John almost regretted having to call the man when he headed to the box only to have to leave the room for a moment. Lestrade didn't need a second look into the box when he reentered the room and instead had Anderson call the evidence team to bag the remains for further investigating. John couldn't sleep that night, he didn't understand what was going on, all he knew was that he and Sherlock were possibly in danger.

Lestrade called a few days later to report that a cause of death could not be determined and that the childs case would be dismissed in six months. John reported back that nothing else had been found at their door since and that maybe this had all been a sick joke but even as the words left his mouth he knew he did not belive them. After that John kept pestering Sherlock to use his deduction skills to explain what was going on. sadly all Sherlock ever said was that many species of animals considered dead things to be a gift for those they love.

One night while laying in bed it occurred to john that he had been the one to find the deceased. His heart hammered in his chest, did he have a psychotic stalker?! John was on edge for weeks after that thought but eventually began to relax when a month passed and nothing else happened. Then detective Lestrade and inspector Anderson had been found dead in an alley behind the station.

Once again the medical experts could find no cod ( cause of death ) but they did find two notes. One note had been lodged in each of his former co-workers throats, both were love letters of a sort. Both were also addressed to John, the first note waxed poetry about Johns small yet well-built form while the second note listed ways the killer would like to see John bound and gagged. John was put into a protection system after that, no matter where he went he was not alone, he was always with Sherlock or a cop.

Two nights later molly was found. She had been sliced from belly button to her chest plate on top of one of the gurney in the hospital morgue. Another note had been scrawled across the floor in her blood. It was a much shorter note than the last two, simply listing a that two more gifts would come before the killer came for John. John was becoming manic as everyday passed, Sherlock and most of the police were on the case and yet no one had a clue about the deviants identity. Then much to quickly they found Mycroft's body.

Mycroft was found by his assistant Athena in his office. He had been impaled through the mouth with his umbrella. The killer once again left a note, it hung from one of the many metal prongs on the top part of the umbrella. All it said was " one to goe my dear, Watson." That night John was put under house arrest for lack of a better word. Police-men surrounded their small appartement from the inside and out.

John was sitting in his room, to his knowledge agent sally Donovan was outside his door as well as several other officers placed around and inside their home. The clock had just struck midnight when the screaming started. Sally instructed John trough the door not to move. john lost track at how long he sat huddle in the closet of his small room, hands over his ears to try to block out the many screams that now filled their house.

Eventually the house grew quiet and a soft knock sounded on his door and could be heard whispering for him trough the door. He smiled as he rushed towards the door sure it was over only to see 's sad,terrified face for a moment before a gunshot sounded. Suddenly John's vision was red as blood clouded his eyes and a now mostly headless hit the floor by his feet. John squinted in the dim red light and gasped in horror.

There stood Sherlock, his best friend, with a gun pointed at him. Sherlock was covered in blood from head to toe, his curls so damp with it that they hung loosely around his face and neck. John wanted to scream, cry, to do anything other than stand there as his flatmate decided weather or not to spare him. Then Sherlock smiled, a wide toothy smile, that left john flushed with fear.

John wondered to himself how many times he had dreamed of that smile. Regardless of what people told him, he never dreamed his first glimpse at Sherlock's smile would be over a corpse that Sherlock put there. Sherlock stepped over their landlady like she was nothing more than a lump in the carpet and closed in on John.

" did you like my gifts, John? " Sherlock whispered seductively in the shorter man's ear, " they ere all for you, just for you, my dear Watson".

" w..why ?" was all John could muster back.

" isn't it obvious my darling? it's because i love you." Sherlock began, " you, John Watson, make me feel alive. this world is so boring for someone like me. this world filled with such fools but then i found you and you made my blood pulse and i knew that you were special.".

" but... our friends... !" John manged to gasp out.

" they were your friends, not mine. " Sherlock said as he lowered the gun to rub against Johns inner thighs as he spoke, " i told you, John, i only have one friend. you told me friends protect people so i protected you from the scum of this planet. they would have ruined you! made you boring like them!" Sherlock ended in a yell.

John felt tears running down his face but couldnt reply as Sherlock's tongue was suddenly in his mouth. Years, years John had wanted this man to kiss him but had denied himself because it wasn't the socially acceptable thing to do but now, now all his friends were gone. John knew somewhere deep down that he had family left, that he had not lost everything but all his mind seemed to supply was a steady chant of " Sherlock" and "Want". So it didn't surprise him that when Sherlock said " take my hand." he did so without a second thought and suddenly they were running.

They ran down the stairs, out into the street and just kept running. Somewhere in John's mind he registered the sound of an explosion from behind them. Sherlock was a monster and John knew this now but still he'd follow this man anywhere and for as long as possible. He knew he'd follow this man untill he put a bullet trough his heart, because Sherlock may be a monster but John had been nothing more than a ghost after the war. The only thing that made him feel alive was Sherlock.


End file.
